


First One's Free

by harrylee94



Category: Critical Role (Web Series), UnDeadwood (Web Series)
Genre: Angst, Canonical Character Death, Characters in pain, Episode 4 spoilers, I haven't decided on much yet, UnDeadwood Mini-series (Critical Role), because of course there's angst, briefly, more tags to be added later, what are you doing reading this if you haven't watched the whole thing yet?
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-11-27
Updated: 2019-12-13
Packaged: 2021-02-25 21:14:52
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 14,715
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21582088
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/harrylee94/pseuds/harrylee94
Summary: "This game isn't over yet, Clayton Sharp. It's not over until I say it is."
Comments: 44
Kudos: 73





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> I had to do it guys.

It had been a long time since Clayton Sharpe had even begun to trust anyone, keeping himself to himself and keeping from getting to know anyone beyond a passing acquaintance or a brief business arrangement. He was a mystery to many, even himself, on bad days, and his past, though still so clear in some cases, just started to become a sea of forgotten faces and too many eyes. Staying in one place was never safe; even in a lawless town like Deadwood the law could catch up to you, and justice was blind, in more ways than one in his case. Sean Harvey had been generous man, kind when he could be, and a smart businessman. Amos had cursed himself to hell and back thinking of the day he'd been shot dead in the streets. Shot dead by the man Amos had once called friend, and had fled, leaving Amos stood there like a fool, eyes staring at him in accusation.

Trust had been a hard thing to find after that, and for fifteen years Amos Kinsley ceased to exist. He became the shadow of Thomas Archer, of Joseph Watts, of Perry Jones, and, eventually, of Clayton Sharpe, and eventually his old life became less of a heartbreaking memory and more of a reminder of why trust was something that he would never be able to find again.

And then, after a few weeks of laying low in Deadwood, Al Swearengen called him up to the Gem Saloon with four other strangers, and in two days four individuals started to craw their way past all the carefully crafted defences. He started to care about them, started to see them as friends.

Started to trust them.

Missus Miriam Landisman, her talk of delicate sensibilities, her sweet words and beautiful dress hiding a sharp mind and equally sharp tongue with a steel in her that Clayton couldn't help but admire. This woman had been through the worst kind of hell, and still she somehow found it in her to care about others, to protect those she chose to place under her care. She was a woman of many surprises, and Clayton would have loved to have known her better.

The good Reverend, with his rather loose adherence to the word of God compared to other Preachers he'd had the privilege of knowing, and his almost naive innocence. No, it wasn't innocence, it was a carefully chosen facade, one that reminded Clayton so much of his own. Seeing that man's face stare back at him from a wanted poster had not perhaps been as shocking as it should have been, but some secrets were made to be kept, and Reverend Matthew Mason's had no cause to be brought to light.

Missus Whitlock, Arabella, her constitution greater than some men's - particularly the Reverend's in some cases - and her tale of woe a truly moving one. Having to shoot your own sister, even if it wasn't really her any more; he couldn't imagine what she'd had to go through, facing a situation like that. None of her knowledge of the occult could have prepared her for that, or anyone, for that matter. She had a strength in her, one that was being smothered in a town like this.

And then there was Mister Aloysius Fogg. A particularly interesting fellow was Mister Fogg, one fond of merriment - in many forms - and of a sound mind. His judgement was one that Clayton could relate to the most of all their companions, even if his story with the mysterious fog was almost too wild to be true. It seemed Mister Fogg was no stranger to the strange happenings that they had been experiencing for the past few days, and his past was just as shadowed as Clayton's own. It made trusting hard, but he did enjoy his time with the man, and their time fighting those Things had made Clayton start to think that maybe, just maybe, he could start to trust again.

When the merriment had vanished from Fogg's eyes, and his revolver pressed lightly against his temple, Clayton knew he couldn't have been more wrong. Words would not sway, and the hope that had been slowly building inside him cracked and crumbled away as everything the others tried to do failed. A part of him wondered why they wouldn't just shoot Fogg if they cared about him at all. Another part of him understood all too well, for two completely separate reason.

He could hear the Reverend praying for them under his breath on the porch, the night quiet and the ladies from the Bella Union watching on as they stood guard over the town. Missus Whitlock and Missus Landisman were stood close together, watching with an expression Clayton didn't want to look at. Mister Fogg, stood across from him in the thoroughfare, looked back at him blankly, and past between them erased, just like Amos Kinsley had been.

Clayton was tired of running. He was so tired of having to change his name, having to keep people at a distance to keep himself safe. He wanted to live, of course he did, but what he'd been doing was surviving. But now, surviving at the cost of Mister Fogg - of a friend? No, he couldn't do that. His first shot was a warning, one that perhaps he would have understood, but after Al lined up his second shot Clayton tried again, this time aiming for his shooting hand. A burning pain in his stomach put his aim off, and his third shot was wasted.

When the bullet tore through Clayton Sharpe's heart all he could think was 'thank God I didn't kill him'. He smiled, in a way glad that it had been a friend who had killed him, even if it had been for a corrupted law, and as he sank back into darkness, he could almost say he felt at peace.

* * *

"Welcome back."

The world was grey, empty of everything, except for Them; The Dealer.

"I wasn't expecting to see you so soon; you were always so adamant to keep your distance, though not as much as some I could name."

Clayton frowned. "What am I doing here?"

"You're dead," the Dealer replied, then tilted It's head in a manner that would have been coy in any other instance, "mostly."

"Mostly?"

"This game isn't over yet, Clayton Sharp. It's not over until I say it is."

"The fuck are you talkin' about?"

"You've still got chips to bet, Mister Sharpe." Clayton got the distinct feeling that the Dealer was grinning at him, though It's features remained a mystery. "First one's free."


	2. Awake

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rising to his feet, he could swear he could hear the rumbling laugh of the Dealer on the wind.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another chapter? So soon? Hm, better not get used to this kind of productivity.

When next Clayton opened his eyes it was dark. His body ached something fierce, and the back of his neck felt tender and sore, a sensation that felt like sunburn which was only amplified by the heat of the air. He was face down, there was dust, mud and sand next to his mouth and he almost choked on it when he felt some tickle at his dry throat. He didn't move for a few moments, growing steadily more and more aware of himself, of the rubbing of rope at his wrist, of the way his shirt stuck to his skin, before curling abruptly.

His stomach rolled and churned, sending bile up his already painful throat, and he somehow managed to turn his head as he threw up whatever it was his body had decided he could do without. It hurt, dragging painfully through his esophagus until it his the back of his teeth; that along with many, many tiny, squirming white things. Blinking blearily at the light, his eyes taking their sweet time to adjust, Clayton reached up with his bound hands and spat it out. Holding it up to his eyes he almost swore.

A bullet. He'd just thrown up a bullet.

He blinked, squinting past the bullet to try and focus on something - anything - that wasn't less than an inch away from his face, but everything was a blur. The mass of squirming things, with a little closer examination, revealed themselves to be maggots - partially digested maggots - and Clayton recoiled, only to freeze when he heard a horse snort nearby.

He held still for a minute, two, three, listening intently to every sound. There was a rustling in the bush, wind brushing against his back, the horse shuffling and nickering, but nothing else. The last he remembered he'd been in Deadwood, coming down the stairs from Al Swearengen's office after having heard his chat with Mister Fogg, and then...

He looked at the bullet again. Well Shit.

 _'First one's free_ _'_

Clayton curled his fingers around the bullet, his already blurred sight going even more out of focus as he remembered the cold of the night air, his hand gripping tight to his gun, the Reverend's prayers whispering in his ear, and eyes filled with justice staring at him as fire pierced his gut and his... He inhaled deeply, eyes shutting tight as he forced himself not to think about it. That wasn't important right now; he was here, his heart was beating, he was breathing, and his hands were bound.

He twisted experimentally at his wrists and was pleased to find that the rope had a little give, though not much. It took a bit of twisting and some blistering at those spots around his wrists, but he managed to slip one hand through the ring of rope, his glove slipping off as he did so. He rubbed discretely at his wrists, opening his eyes again as he looked around. His hat was gone - as was his gun belt, though that wasn't very surprising given the situation he was in - and so he had to be more careful about how obvious he was being with his gaze. His eyes had recovered somewhat at least, and the mess of maggots was actually maggots now instead of just a mess of moving little white blobs, not that there was much of a difference.

Light was fading fast, and still there was no sign of whoever it was that had tied him up in the first place (though he had a good idea of who it might be). He couldn't see much further than a foot away from him with any sort of clarity, but he knew what a horse looked like, even in this state. Looking around him one more time and spotting nothing that would indicate any humans were nearby, Clayton heaved himself up with a grunt, his muscles barely wanting to react to his command, and it was like he was trying to bend rusty hinges instead of his joints. Moving was awkward and slow, but he forced himself to his feet, almost falling over again when vertigo struck.

The horse was making some noises again, clearly spooked - and Clayton couldn't blame it, he was half way there himself - but it was his ticket away from here. He approached the creature, the thing tugging at its reigns which had been moored to a tree, and reached his hand out towards it.

"'S alright there darlin'," he muttered, his voice rasping from ill use and no water for God knew how long. "Quiet for me now."

The horse snorted, hooves hitting the ground and it moved away from his reaching fingers, whinnying loudly enough for Clayton to flinch and look around him again, only to curse under his breath when he realised what a fruitless act that was. He reached for the horse again, slipping the bullet into his pocket as he did so, only to get butted into by the skittish creature and he fell onto his backside. The horse neighed and rose up onto its hind hoofs, kicking in his direction with its powerful legs.

Clayton shuffled backwards, fearing the thing would try to trample him, but with the greater distance the horse started to calm some, though it had started to pace from side to side. "Message received," he muttered to himself and pulled himself to his feet again. He had to get away; the horse had been too loud and there was bound to be someone headed his way now. He hated having to travel on foot, especially since he was still so unstable, but what other choice did he have? As quick as he could he searched through what had been made of the camp, taking the full water-skin and what looked like a bit of jerky.

Just as he was about to head into the trees he heard the click of a gun behind him.

He froze, back turned to his assailant, and then charged into the trees. Wood splintered into his face as a bullet slammed into the tree trunk nearby, but Clayton pushed past it, and the next shot he heard ram into a tree, this one close to hitting, and probably would have had he not taken a quick right, using the trees to keep himself upright as he felt his legs threatening to fail under him. He heard a shout but he didn't bother to listen and carried on, running through the trees as fast as he could on his miserable excuse for limbs.

Another shot, thankfully going much wider than the last, whizzed by him, and he heard it ricochet off of some rocks further ahead, rocks that he soon found himself having to traverse. It was a landscape of rocks and boulders on a deep decline into a valley, the trees becoming more scarce between. Couldn't he get a break? Another bullet screamed past him. Of course he fucking couldn't.

He scrambled over and around the various obstacles, falling more than once, his ungloved hand grazed and burned by the sun-soaked stone, but he had to keep moving. He had to get away.

Another shot just barely missed him - he could feel the wind breaking as it flew by his ear, and he instinctively turned back to look.

Aloysius Fogg stood at the edge of the thickest patch of trees, eyes down at his gun as he hastily reloaded his riffle, glancing up for a fraction of a second, then looked again. Shock registered on his face, his hands stilled, and Clayton could see him whisper his name, though he was too far away to hear it.

He continued on, unable to read to look in Fogg's eyes from this distance, and he wasn't about to wait for him to come closer to see. He'd already died at his hands once and he wasn't about to do it again any time soon, not if he could help it.

"Shut up," he growled to himself; he didn't need to think about that, had no need to think about something he would much rather forget. He didn't need the distraction.

"Sharpe!" Well, Mister Fogg had always been good at taking one's mind off of more serious thoughts. "Sharpe!"

Clayton remained silent, his limbs becoming more limber and understanding as the minutes passed. Looking back he could barely see Fogg any more, though still his vision blurred at any point more than a handful of yards away, but he knew he had to keep moving. The sun was below the horizon now, the sky growing darker and darker, and with his already fucked eyes, running through this landscape became treacherous. One wrong move was all it took

How was he to know his next trip would send him rolling down the hillside?

He somehow managed to duck his head down into his body and shielded it with his arms as he tumbled down, down, down the valley, rocks and fallen branches catching his sides, his back, his knees and arms. He was sure he felt something break in his descent, and when he finally came to a stop near something that sounded like a rive he had to lay still and breathe for a few moments. Yep, definitely a broken rib.

" _Sharpe!_ " Fogg cried from above him, much further away than before, and he heaved himself up, clutching at his side.

Fresh blood dripped slowly down his arm, his neck, his brow, warm trails leaving marks like hot fingers and Clayton shivered. Move, God damn it! He pushed onward, closer to the sound of the river, and the trees began to thin until he reached it; a wide stretch of water running past him deceptively slowly, and he eyes it, wondering how in the hell he was going to get past it and all its hidden rapids.

" _Sharpe!_ "

"Fuck." Didn't matter either way, he just knew he had to get across. Cursing his luck he headed into the water, the leather of his boots keeping out the worst of it for all of a minute before it came spilling over the top. It didn't matter that his feet were wet for long though, because soon all of him was. The river was deep and about a dozen feet in he felt the current start to pull him away.

Exhausted though he was he swam hard, pushing for the shore on the other side, even as he started to pick up speed. The landscape around him started to flash by him, though as great blurs they were just a poorly made watercolour. He didn't know where he was or where he was going, just what he was getting away from. That was enough.

He was perhaps about two thirds of the way over the river when he heard in, the distant rumble that filled him with dread, and he tried to double his efforts, no matter the pain he was in. He wasn't going over no God damn waterfall. The roar of tonnes of water hitting rock after a long drop got louder and louder until it filled his ears more than the water itself until-

Clayton yelled as his knee cracked on a rock and he floated a little closer to the edge before he grappled frantically at the floor, breathing in a lungful of the river in the process, but he managed, just, to heave himself onto dry land.

As he flopped down on his back after having hacked up what he'd swallowed, he breathed deep and hard, shivering against the cold of the drawing night in his saturated clothes. He was so tired, but he had to keep moving.

Rising to his feet, he could swear he could hear the rumbling laugh of the Dealer on the wind.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ... I might like me some angst?


	3. A Meeting

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Would you prefer to call me Amos Kinsley or Clayton Sharpe?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So... I had a bit of time at work to do a bit of writing this weekend. Ta da?

The sun had long since fallen below the crest of the hills, the bite of the night growing sharp against the wet clothes that Clayton could not do without, and could not afford to wear. He'd removed his outer jacket and tie, ignoring the hole in the back left-hand side, but kept his vest in place. He didn't know who he might encounter, and the little trip through the river had washed a fair amount of the blood from it, though it would remain nicely stained for the rest of its existence. Clayton had no intention of letting anyone he might happen to walk into notice and come to the wrong conclusion, or to the right one either, and the fabric was dark enough to conceal some secrets at least. There was nothing he could do about his saturated boots though.

He hadn't heard Mister Fogg since he'd escaped the river's pull, but he couldn't afford to stop moving, not when he knew he would be on his tale. Plus he was on foot whereas Fogg would be on horse, so any chance he got to get a head start he would take.

The wind blew through the trees, chilling the sharpshooter to the bones, and he shivered, rubbing at his arms to keep the cold away as he looked around. The twilight was making it hard to see, but his vision had cleared up now, so while the darkness was annoying, at least he could see where the fuck he was going. There were about as many rocks on this side of the valley as there had been on the other, at least for the first fifty feet or so as he climbed, but after that there were some scraggly patches of grass in amongst the sparse trees, and he started looking out for other things, more than just humans.

He'd seen dome evidence of deer and badgers and the like, and he knew coyotes didn't always wander this far up into the hills, but he could never be too careful, especially if he ended up startling a mountain lion. He didn't want to get gored thank you very much, let alone suffer a bite from a particularly agitated rattler.

It took longer than it should have for him to realise that he was travelling West, but that was probably because he was busy thinking about other things, particularly about what he was doing in this God forsaken place. In a place like Deadwood, people either tended to be buried pretty quick, or left to rot in the back streets for a few days before anyone bothered to stick them in a ditch in the graveyard, coffin optional. He didn't know how long it had been since he'd... but he was certainly never buried if Fogg was half way to trading him in at the next town for a fist-full of dollars.

No, he wasn't trading him for money, not with the payment he would have received on the completion of their assignment. Fogg had shot him out of justice, not greed, so he would have been taking him in as proof that he was no longer a wanted man, in a sense. Maybe Clayton should have stayed dead for a while longer and then that little load stone would have been cut from about his neck.

Speaking of necks, that would have been something else that should have been considered on his... expiry. After everything that had happened in that God forsaken town he would have expected that at the very least, perhaps a fire if he was lucky, like Arabella's sister, Cynthia. What were they thinking, leaving a body whole like that after all the shit they'd seen?

That thought, of course, got him thinking about the others, about what they would have done with his body, if they'd tried to protect it when Fogg came to claim it. Maybe he HAD been buried and that bounty hunter had come to collect it when they hadn't been looking, or had there been some other reason they weren't able to keep it safe? Had they even bothered or cared enough to bury him quickly? Had he been left out on the street to rot like so many other duel fatalities he'd seen over the years? There was no way of knowing now though, even as thoughts of abandonment by those he had come to... respect made his heart ache. No, whatever they'd done, however hard they'd tried, or not, he was no longer in the place called Deadwood. But did he want to go back?

As he crested the hill and looked past the trees before him, he chuckled to himself and shook his head; it looked like he was heading there anyway. It would probably take him a few days to get there by foot, perhaps even a week, and quite a lot of that stretch between him and there was pretty barren, much of it no better than scrub-land. What he really need was a horse.

But did he want to return?

Deadwood had been a haven, at first. It had been a place to hide and continue his life to the best of his abilities as a wanted man. People didn't really care who he was when he kept to himself, but after everything that had happened, he couldn't really stay hidden anymore. At least the duel had happened in the middle of the night. If the others had been prompt then no one would have known any better; he would have just vanished. He could start his life again somewhere new, under a new name. It wasn't anything new; he'd done it plenty of times before after all.

He stared out over the land, at the shadows cast on what he could remember as a dangerous land and the faint glow of the distant town he'd started to call home against all the rules he had set himself so long ago, and wondered. He stood on the edge, safety pulling at him just as much as the longing to be a part of something again, even after everything that had happened. Looking behind him he thought again of Aloysius Fogg and his rifle and huffed. Back to Deadwood it was.

Where else was he going to find someone who cared a stitch if he lived or died?

As he made his way down towards that lawless town, the night creeping onward, his body started to shiver against the cold, unable to fight against the damage his body had taken and the residue water that clung to his skin. He tried eating some of the jerky he'd pilfered, but all that did was make his jaw ache and he had to save some for the rest of the journey. What a pitiful excuse for rations...

He heard the familiar shuffle of a deck of cards.

"Stay the fuck away from me," Clayton snapped, looking around him and feeling even more foolish when he realised there was nothing to see. "Bastard."

Silence greeted him after that and he huffed in annoyance. He would keep moving, at least that way he would be somewhat warm, and hope he wouldn't end up gaining any more bruises. The scratches he'd managed to obtain in his haphazard escape had at least been stemmed, but that rib was causing him plenty of trouble. Limping through the hills of South Dakota on a bum knee while holding your chest and trying not to wheeze was not indicative of stealthy endeavours.

A scurrying to the right made him spin, reaching for his pistols, only to growl at himself for forgetting that he was unarmed, a situation he was increasingly uncomfortable in, only to huff out a laugh when he saw a fox scavenging through the bush. It was going to be a long night if this kept up.

It took him just over two hours to finish his descent out onto the grand expanse between the river and the distant trees that surrounded Deadwood, a long, unsheltered stretch of land under a cloudless night sky and a waning moon. Without the cover of the trees, or even a decent set of dry clothes, Clayton knew any heat he might have gained in his trek would evaporate. But he had to keep moving. He had to.

Cards shuffled in his ear again, slower and more pronounced, goading him.

"Fuck off," Clayton growled and pushed himself off from the tree he'd been leaning against, studying the horizon. "I don't need you."

The wind picked up for a moment and made him shiver uncontrollably for a moment, making him hiss when the movement shifted that damned rib. There wasn't another sound from the Dealer, not even a whisper, but he knew it was watching him, smug and waiting for him to give in.

Digging his heels in, he pushed on, refusing to allow that Thing to cow him. He might have been cold, hungry and hurting, but he wasn't quitting yet.

He started his slow, ambling trudge, attempting to travel in as much of a straight line as he could, but it was inevitable that he would have to make his way around dips and divots and all other sorts of complications. He'd almost run into a rattler after he'd tripped over a hidden gopher hole, and he'd had to avoid a pair of coyote as they feasted on a bison's long abandoned corpse by some distance. He spent so much time after that focusing on where he was stepping that he didn't notice the rider approaching him from the distant road until it was too late.

"A good night to you, stranger!"

Clayton stiffened and turned away, clutching at his jacket as he tried to think of what to do, how to react, to the three people he'd not been expecting to see for days.

"What are you doing out, so late, and without means of transportation?"

The sharpshooter closed his eyes as Missus Miriam Landisman continued to call out to him. He should have had more time to prepare, to plan ahead and make his presence known slowly, but it seemed that the world had decided to play yet another joke on him.

"Sir?"

That was the Reverend, his deep voice cautiously concerned, and he heard the horses coming to a stop perhaps little more than a meter behind him.

"...I'm headed to Deadwood," Clayton replied, his voice still rough and almost unrecognisable, for which he was incredibly grateful.

"Deadwood?" The thud of someone sliding off their horse. "That's almost a day's ride from here."

"Reverend!" Arabella Whitlock, hissing at the man to have caution.

"I'm sure I'll be fine," Clayton replied, glancing over his shoulder.

Reverend Matthew Mason was stood between him and three horses - on which were Miriam and Arabella respectively, Arabella sitting side-saddle of course - the leather coat he had bought for him hanging from his shoulders and the white collar of his faith poking out from behind the black material of his vestments. He was reaching behind that coat with one hand even as he looked on at him with that concerned gaze. "You're shaking."

Clayton snorted and turned away again, looking up at the sky with a long sigh and muttered, "It's been one of those days." He coughed and said louder; "None of your concern, Reverend."

"The well-being of others is always my concern," the Reverend replied, and Clayton heard him step closer. He stiffened further still when he felt the man's hand come down on his shoulder, and he cursed himself for a fool for not moving away, even as the ladies hissed caution. "You're soaked!"

Clayton kept his head turned away, even as the Reverend stepped closer still, like the fool he was. Perhaps he had a death wish. That would explain so much. "I had a river to cross."

"Did you swim?" the Reverend asked, pulling at his shoulder to turn him around.

"I might've," Clayton responded at a grumble, snapping his shoulder away, only to hiss when it agitated his rib.

"You're hurt!"

Another thud of feet hitting the ground and the Reverend's fingers, that has just started to brush at Clayton's back, were snatched away.

"Reverend would you stop and think for one God damned second!" Miss Arabella snapped at him and the sharpshooter heard the hammer of the colt he'd bought her click into place. He smiled with pride. "This man, whoever he is, hasn't shown us whether he's friend or foe. Hasn't even shown his face."

"But-"

"Better listen to your friend there, Reverend," Clayton warned with a smirk. "Wouldn't want you coming to any harm."

There was a long pause.

"If you wouldn't mind introducing yourself," came Missus Landisman's velvet smooth voice. "I think it's about time we stopped all this nonsense and spoke face to face, don't you think?"

Clayton nodded. "Always the sensible one," he muttered, and with that he dropped his jacket and tie to the ground with a wet slap. He heard two other guns come to the ready as he raised his hands out to the sides, palms up, and he turned around.

Three sets of eyes landed on him, and one by one they grew wide.

"Would you prefer to call me Amos Kinsley or Clayton Sharpe?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was a lot of fun to write. I love writing dialogue so much, and these guys are just so great. I can't wait until the next chapter!


	4. He's Gone

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The gun almost fell from her hands when she looked at a face she didn't think she'd ever see smile again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was a lot of fun to write.  
> But then, it all is...

Miriam had hated people before; she had hated her father for leaving her and her mother to fend for themselves, she had hated the men who had beaten her mother black and blue when she had to take customers just so they could meet their rent, she hated to woman who had kept her away from the only family she'd had left as she lay on her deathbed, taking away her last opportunity to hold her hand as he slipped away into the unknown.

And now she hated Aloysius Fogg.

She had come to find a like minded soul in Clayton Sharpe, his insight and view on life working in tandem to her own, and she felt comfortable - safe - when he was watching over them. He had a past, but who among them did not? He'd told her he'd never shot someone who hadn't tried to shoot him first, and that was enough for her to know what kind of man Mister Sharpe was. Beneath that quiet and uncaring exterior, he was kind, forthright and of a good character.

And then Aloysius Fogg shot him dead in the street like a dog.

She had stuck by Arabella's side as they sobbed over his body, that smile forever frozen on his lips, and it was only that which had kept her in place. Had it been different - had she been on her own and Clayton's body safe - she would have followed Sharpe's murderer up those stairs and shot him in his sleep. Her derringer hadn't seen enough use in recent weeks.

But no, instead she ended up holding vigil with Arabella and the Reverend over Mister Sharpe's body, following behind him when he carried the body to the church, before escorting Missus Whitlock back to her husband's side. The girls from the Bella Union had all nodded their condolences to her as they passed, Katie in particular looking back at the church briefly as she held her sawed-off shotguns.

She stayed with Arabella until she had calmed down, brewing a pot of tea for the both of them and letting the hot drink calm their already damaged sensibilities. The young lady, who had already suffered so much loss, much as they all had, almost fell asleep in her chair, but Miriam sent her off to bed with a quiet word of comfort - a comfort she could not feel himself - and wandered back to the church. She glared at the Gem Saloon as she passed it and paused at the stained spot where Clayton had died, but continued on soon after.

The Reverend had placed Mister Sharpe's body on a make-shift alter and was sat on the remains of a pew, rosary clutched in his hands as he stared blankly at him - at _it_ \- muttering 'Hail Mary's and 'Our Father's and 'Glory Be's under his breath. There were wet tracks down his cheeks, but only the slump of his shoulders was the other sign of his pain.

"Bless your heart, Reverend," she had said, resting her hand on his shoulder. He had leaned into her in his grief, but not removed his eyes from their friend.

"He didn't deserve this," he'd muttered, the beads of the rosary rustling as he prayed.

"Not many do," Miriam agreed. "I will keep vigil with you."

The night was long and dark, darker than any night had been since her husband had passed, but as the sun was beginning to rise over the horizon the Reverend sent Miriam from his side, insisting she get some sleep before they buried Clayton in the afternoon. Miriam agreed, though only because the exhaustion of the night was becoming too had to ignore. When she returned to her room and lay down to sleep, she dreamed of killing a murderer.

* * *

Miriam woke to a loud knocking on her door as some time in the late morning, and she was immediately on her feet at the sound. The rifle she had propped up against the head of her bed was pointed at the door in her steady hands by the time the knocking came again.

"Missus Landisman? Miriam?"

She relaxed a little at the sound of Arabella's voice, frantic though it was, and approached the door.

Missus Whitlock was stood on the other side, fist raised in preparation to knock again, but as soon as she saw Miriam she sighed in relief and grasped at her wrist, pulling her out without even asking if she was wearing shoes. She was, of course, having learned to live with great vigilance in this town, but still, the courtesy should have been honoured.

"Arabella!"

"Thank God you're awake," the woman said, leading her down the stairs. "This whole thing's turned into a nightmare."

"Arabella, I am unprepared for walking out of this establishment at this moment!"

The woman stopped and turned back to her, eyes hard behind red cheeks. "He's gone."

Miriam stiffened. "What?"

"Mister Sharpe," Arabella continued. " _Someone_ snuck up on the Reverend during the night and stole Sharpe. He's gone."

_Someone_. Miriam's grip grew tight on her gun. She should have shot him dead. "Take me to him."

Arabella nodded and led the way out onto the street and up towards the church, taking care to hide the rifle in her skirts as best as she could to avoid bringing undue attention to themselves. The road felt longer than ever, stretching out in front of them as they walked arm in arm, the touch of eyes dashing over them like ants. As they headed closer and closer to the half-burnt husk of the church Miriam could see Reverend Mason pacing angrily back and forth on the porch, his leather coat on his shoulders once again. His fingers were curling into fists and back, and he kept looking down the road every few seconds until he caught sight of them, at which point he headed down the stairs to meet them.

"Reverend," Miriam said, reaching out for him and grasping his hand when he came to a stop in front of him, only to frown at the bandages wrapped around his wrists. "What did he do?"

He shook his head. "He got me from behind," the Reverend explained. "He tied me up. All I could do was watch."

Miriam nodded and patted his hand. "It's not you're fault. I should have stayed with you."

"You were exhausted."

"We all were," Miriam pointed out. "It doesn't matter now; did you see which way he went?"

"No." Matthew rubbed at his face.

"Don't blame yourself, Reverend," Arabella said, looking around before her eyes landed on the nearest saloon. "I'm sure someone saw something."

Turning to look at the Gem, they saw Dan stood in the door, looking straight back at them before turning back into the Saloon, a motion that beckoned them to follow. And follow they did, Miriam and Arabella flanking the Reverend on either side as they hooked their hands into his elbows.

Miriam expected Al Swearengen to be sipping at his coffee by the banister above them as they entered that God forsaken place, but he was nowhere to be seen. His ladies were still there, milling about and urging patrons to spend some coin on the pleasure of their company, but otherwise Johnny was shakily cleaning a glass behind the bar, glancing over at Dan who was wiping down a table nearby. Sashaying over to the bartender, Miriam smiled pleasantly at the man.

"You wished to see me, Mister Dority," she said softly, watching as he continued to wipe at the spills across the polished wood and picked up a few glasses with skilled hands.

Dan looked up at them, between each of their faces, and nodded. "Mornin' ladies, Reverend," he said, nodding at each in turn before heading back towards the bar. "There was a bit of a ruckus up at the church earlier today."

The Reverend clenched his fingers into his palm. "That there was."

Dan nodded, setting the glasses behind the bar to clean later. "Mister Fogg left in a mighty hurry too."

Miriam stiffened at the sound of that Villain's name. "Did he indeed?"

"Yep. Said somethin' about heading East," the bartender continued. "Saw him headed off on a horse with a... package slung over the back."

Miriam nodded as she held onto the Reverend's arm. "Well, thank you kindly for the information."

"He was good man," Dan replied. "Mighty shame what happened. Mighty shame."

"That he was," Arabella agreed. "I hope you... don't take offence if we take our patronage elsewhere, considering everything that's occurred?"

"Not at all," Dan replied, "but our doors are always open to you, should you need a free drink."

"Much appreciated," the Reverend muttered and started to turn the three of them back out the doors. Miriam could feel the tension that was running through the man's body and would have patted his hand had she not still been holding her rifle. Luckily Arabella seemed to notice and was doing so herself. The Reverend didn't react for a few moments, but relaxed a fraction as they stepped out of the doors, and even more so when they got back onto the street.

"I'll get the horses," he said, looking between them. "He'll be slower with..."

Thoughts of their friend, lost for reasons callous and unjust, no matter what Mister Fogg had said, filled a silence that stretched on for longer than it had any right to; a silence that had lost that comforting aspect of Clayton Sharpe's presence.

"I'll get my gun," Arabella muttered after a few moments, "and maybe some food."

"And I shall acquire any other supplies we might be in need of for such a journey," Miriam added, giving Matthew's arm a light squeeze. "We'll meet back at the church when we're done."

They all nodded and, now with a purpose, they all went in their separate directions.

Even with haste their endeavours took perhaps an hour of their precious time, and while everything they gathered was necessary, each creeping moment into delay grated at Miriam's nerves. The return to her room felt like a waist of time, even as she strapped her derringer to her thigh, and it was a great strain to remain polite to the other patrons of the Bullock Hotel and the rest of the citizens of Deadwood. The ones that remained that is.

By the time she returned to the church, Arabella was adjusting the length of the stirrups and the Reverend was...

"Is that...?" Miriam asked, nodding at the hat resting on the horn of the saddle.

"It is," the man replied, opening the saddle bag slightly to show the gleam of Sharpe's well cared for pistols. "He left it and his gun belt behind."

Miriam looked up at him in sympathy. Mister Sharpe wouldn't need his hat or his guns any more, and there wasn't much point in carrying them around, but she couldn't blame the Reverend for keeping a memento near.

"Then we'd best ensure they are returned to him," she said, smiling over at Arabella who had pulled herself onto her saddle.

With not another word, the three of them soon lead their horses out of the town of Deadwood.

It was a long ride, one that was made mostly in silence, none of them feeling the need to express anything now that their number had decreased so dramatically. Their thoughts were focused almost entirely on catching up with Aloysius Fogg, of taking Clayton Sharpe back, and what they should do with Fogg once they reached them.

They'd eaten lunch while on horseback, and they had stopped for dinner as the sun had started to set, but it had been an unspoken agreement that they continue on as soon as they had finished. The Reverend might have been lagging a bit, having barely slept at all the night before as he kept watch over, but it was he who, two hours after sundown, spotted the stumbling figure of a man coming from the hills a little North of their position.

"Do you see that man?"

Miriam blinked over at him, noticing he had pointed out into the wastes that surrounded the road and straining her eyes to try and see what he was seeing. "Man?"

"I see him," Arabella replied, steering her horse closer to the Reverend's. "What is he doing, travelling through this kind of terrain without a horse?"

"Maybe it wasn't his choice," the Reverend suggested, bringing his horse to a stop.

"Reverend..." Miriam warned.

"We should make sure he's alright."

"Reverend-," Miriam tried again, only to sigh when he started to head out on his own.

Arabella gave her an amused look. "I suppose we'd better make sure he doesn't get himself killed."

Miriam nodded in agreement and spurred her horse onward and after their wayward friend. As they traveled further and further from the road Miriam started to see the stumbling form of the man that the Reverend and Arabella had seen. He didn't even seem to have noticed them until the last moment.

"Reverend!" Miriam called, trying to get the eager man to take more caution, but he seemed to be ignoring her entirely.

"A good night to you, stranger!" the Reverend called out to him as they approached, and the man stiffened and turned his back to them. Miriam narrowed her eyes at him in suspicion. "What are you doing out, so late, and without means of transportation?"

"Reverend!"

Still he refused to listen, and as they drew closer she glanced over at Arabella, who met her eye, and nodded, pulling her rifle from its sling.

Matthew coughed and called out again; "Sir?"

They pulled their horses to a stop a little over a meter from the stranger and Miriam had to pat her mare's neck to keep her calm. All their horses were a little skittish in face, and it was making her nervous. She slipped her rifle over her lap, thumb flirting with the hammer.

"...I'm headed to Deadwood," the man replied, his voice rough as the land itself.

"Deadwood?" the Reverend repeated, perplexed, as he slid from his horse and reached behind his coat. At least he had some sensibilities in him to keep him alive "That's almost a day's ride from here."

"Reverend!" Arabella reached out for him, but it was too late, and the man had no intention of letting her stop him.

"I'm sure I'll be fine." The man glanced over his shoulder and Miriam caught a bare glimpse of his face in the low light.

Matthew shifted his stance and Miriam could tell he was beginning to lower his guard. "You're shaking."

Was he? Miriam could barely tell in the light, but now that the Reverend had mentioned it, she could just about see the man's shoulder shaking. Whether that was through genuine chill or not she couldn't tell, though the man wasn't wearing anything more than two layers at most.

The stranger snorted and turned away again, looking up at the sky with a long sigh as he muttered something she couldn't hear before coughing. "None of your concern, Reverend."

"The well-being of others is always my concern," the Reverend replied, and he stepped closer. Miriam brought her rifle up at that, ready to defend the idiot man of the cloth, but the stranger did nothing but stiffen further when his hand landed on his shoulder.

"Reverend, I think you've gone far enough now," Miriam said, voice strong even as her spirit faltered. They were wasting precious time, Fogg was getting closer to civilisation with every passing moment, and they were stopped, here, for someone they didn't know.

"You're soaked!"

The Reverend stepped closer still, hand coming out from his coat.

"Reverend!" Arabella hissed again and she slipped her leg from over the saddle's horn.

The man grunted. "I had a river to cross."

"Did you swim?"

"I might've," the stranger said and snapped his shoulder away from the Reverend's grasp. A moment later he hissed in pain, and Miriam looked him over again. Arabella looked over at Miriam and shoved herself from her horse.

"You're hurt!"

Missus Whitlock reached the Reverend just as he was about to touch this man again and pulled him away, giving Miriam a greater chance to see. There didn't seem to much wrong with the man that she could see, but from the way he was holding himself, she was sure there must have been something hurting inside. She felt a small pang of sympathy, but she wouldn't let it get in the way of her goal.

"Reverend would you stop and think for one God damned second!" Arabella snapped as she brought out her colt - the same one Mister Sharpe had bought her at the start of their friendship - and took aim. "This man, whoever he is, hasn't shown us whether he's friend or foe. Hasn't even shown his face."

"But-"

"Better listen to your friend there, Reverend," the man warned, his tone gaining a lightness she wouldn't have expected from a man who was being held at gunpoint. "Wouldn't want you coming to any harm."

Matthew's hand shot over to the butt of his shotgun, any nievety he'd been showing wiped away, and Arabella held her gun in both hands now as they watched him carefully.

"If you wouldn't mind introducing yourself," Miriam suggested, holding her rifle at the ready, thumb hovering over the hammer. "I think it's about time we stopped all this nonsense and spoke face to face, don't you think?"

The man nodded and muttered something else, but then he dropped his jacket and tie to the ground with a wet slap, and she was ready to fire in a second.Raising his hands out to the sides, palms up, the man turned slowly around.

The Reverend recognised who it was first, his gasp loud in the long silence, and Arabella soon after, but Miriam couldn't believe it. She couldn't.

The gun almost fell from her hands when she looked at a face she didn't think she'd ever see smile again.

"Would you prefer to call me Amos Kinsley or Clayton Sharpe?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Who knows what will happen next?


	5. Is it really you?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "No matter your past, it is your actions and your intentions today that make you who you are, and to us, you are Clayton Sharpe."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Have to get used to the Americanisms... Vest, not waistcoat. Got it.

"No."

Clayton winced at the painful edge to Missus Whitlock's voice as the barrel of her gun started to shake.

"No," she repeated, shaking her head. "I can't... I can't do this again."

"Arabella-" Miriam called to her, though even her usually steady voice was quaking.

"Clayton?" The sharpshooter looked over at the Reverend, who was starting to lower his gun.

"Reverend!" Miriam snapped, and the man of God flinched, bringing the shotgun up again. "Arabella..."

"I already killed my sister-"

"That wasn't your sister," Miriam said, not looking away from Clayton for a moment, "and this isn't Mister Sharpe."

Clayton swallowed painfully, looking between them, between the dark barrels of their weapons. "If my word counts for anything, I'd rather not get shot again."

No one made a sound or even so much as twitched save for Clayton's shivering from the cold, but then Arabella started to giggle, and he could only look at her in consolation. The Reverend shifted uncomfortably on his feet, glancing over at the hysterical woman as she started to lose her breath, and she dropped to her knees as her laughs turned into tears. Clayton started to step forwards, drawn closer with a need he thought he'd buried along with everything else, only to have the Reverend step between them as Miriam slid down from her horse to try and calm Missus Whitlock.

"Don't move," the Reverend said.

"My apologies," Clayton replied, holding his hands up higher as he moved back.

"Hush now dear," Miriam was saying, trying to sooth Arabella's broken nerves as she sobbed and rocked in Miriam's arms. Clayton wished he still had his hat so he could hide his face. He hated that he was causing them pain, but there was nothing for it.

"... Is it really you?" Mason asked, his own voice beginning to wobble.

Clayton shivered as the air shifted around them. "Is there an answer I can give that you'd believe?"

The Reverend glanced back at the Miriam who was looking at him with great suspicion.

"Thought not."

"Forgive us if we don't run to you with open arms," Miriam said. "We've seen enough to know when to be cautious."

Clayton nodded in understanding. "I would be doing the same thing."

He shivered again and started to rub at his arm before he could stop himself.

".. I have a blanket," the Reverend offered, sympathy wrinkling the edges of his eyes. "A spare one, I mean. Would you-?"

"Please," Clayton said with short nod, more vulnerable with that one word than he had been in years. With a bit of fumbling and some rearranging, Miriam continued to hold Arabella as she aimed the colt at him, and Mason went back to his horse, fumbling with a few things before returning. Had Clayton been the one to offer the blanket, he would have thrown it, but the Reverend stepped closer than he really should have and held it out. "... Thanks."

"You're welcome," the man said, though he frowned when Clayton didn't take it from him immediately, watching his every move.

Clayton took another step back, aware now that the horses were becoming nervous by his presence, and he slowly started undoing his vest. He turned away so he could remove it with a little more privacy, or at least to keep them from seeing the bruises that were sure to be there, but he could still hear the gasp that rose from behind him. He refused to think of why that would be. When he pulled his saturated shirt over his head, he grunted against the grating of his rib and dropped it to the ground.

Fingers traced over his back, and he jumped away, only to wheeze and clutch at his chest. The good Reverend had his hand stretched out towards him, his eyes wide, and they only grew wider when Clayton turned to face them again.

"Don't fucking do that!" Clayton rasped, glaring back at Reverend Mason who looked like a landed fish. He quickly snatched up the blanket from the Reverend's now lax fingers before they could say a word and wrapped himself in it, relaxing fractionally as the heat from the horse that had saturated the fabric warmed him. He knew what his back looked like, he didn't need a reminder. He pulled the blanket tighter around him and let his eyes wander over each of them again, Arabella now emerging from Miriam's shoulder with tearful eyes.

"Your..." the Reverend started, only to swallow, unable to finish.

"What?" Clayton rubbed at his arms. "Like you don't have scars."

More silence, but this time Arabella rose to her feet, swaying away from Miriam who was trying to keep her away from him, and stepped up to him, even as he moved away.

Her gloved hands were warm against his chilled cheeks, her eyes penetrating, even as they were clouded by tears, and Clayton's breath caught in his throat. He didn't know what she was doing, but he hadn't been expecting this at all. Being touched so delicately...

"I don't see them in your eyes," she said, then pulled her right glove off with her teeth and pressed her fingers to his neck. He could feel his heart thumping hard under her touch. "You're alive..."

"Apparently," Clayton responded, voice quiet.

He grunted in surprise when Missus Whitlock pulled him close and hugged him. _Hugged_ him! He's been shot at, taken a tumble down a hill and had to swim through a river, and now he was being hugged? What was with this fucking day? She pulled back a few moments later, smiling up at him, and all he could do was blink back.

"You're alive."

"I think we've established that," Clayton said with a slow nod.

Her smile grew into a huge grin and she pulled him into another hug. He blinked, unsure how to react, especially since his arms were trapped beneath the blanket, and looked over at the others. Miriam was still suspicious, though she seemed to be considering the possibility that this was real, but the Reverend looked like he was ready to join Arabella and squeeze him until another rib broke. Luckily, before he had the chance to, Arabella stepped back again, holding him at arm's length as she looked him over, smile fading.

"How is this possible?" she asked. "Why you? Why not Cynthia?"

Clayton looked away with a wince, thinking of a grey space and a faceless man. "The Dealer."

"What?"

"The Dealer," he repeated, a little louder, and looked over at the Reverend, "or God, or whatever the fuck that thing is. It decided it wasn't done playing with me yet."

"... What does that mean?" Miriam asked, pulling his gaze over to her.

"I don't know," Clayton admitted, clutching tighter to the blanket. "I just know it means I'm alive - for now at least - and I'm in It's _debt_." He turned his head and spat to remove the sour taste such an idea left in his mouth, shifting as the Reverend approached.

"However it might have happened, for whatever reason," Mason said and pressed his hand on Clayton's shoulder, "your return to us is a miracle." He looked up to the sky. "Lord, thank you for this most precious of gifts." This time Clayton was somewhat prepared to be crushed against someone's chest, though he still grunted when his body protested harshly against it. The Reverend pulled back with a snap at the noise hands pulled back to in front of his chest and shotgun held lax in his fingers. "Oh God I am so sorry."

"Sure," Clayton wheezed, but automatically reached out when the Reverend's gun started to list and pushed it to point away from everyone. "Watch where you point that fucking thing."

"Sorry," Mason muttered and he carefully made his gun safe before he slung it over his back again. "I didn't think."

The sharpshooter nodded, almost rolling his eyes, and relaxed some, glad that there was at least one less gun pointed at him now. Miriam, on the other hand, was still some distance away, stood with Arabella's colt at her side.

"How do we know you're not just another snake?" she demanded.

"Miriam-" Arabella began, but the older woman shook her head.

"Doc Cochran acted like any other upstanding gentleman... if a little haunted by his past," Miriam pointed out. "We didn't know he was any different from any of us until... until that _monster_ crawled out of his mouth."

"Miss Landisman, please," Mason tried to defend, but the woman would have none of it and kept her sharp eyes on him.

Smart woman.

Clayton met her gaze. "Like I said; there ain't no answer I can give that'll satisfy you."

She held his eyes for several long moments before inclining her head. "I suppose we'll have to... have faith then." She sent the Reverend a small smile, one which the man returned with a nod. "Now, I might not trust you, but you've been making too much noise for a man who says he's right as rain."

The sharpshooter deflated. "I'm _fine._ "

"The hell you are," Arabella said, tugging at the edge of the blanket. "You said you swam a river?"

"I did," Clayton replied with a sigh, letting her examine him a little without removing his heat source entirely, though he felt incredibly uncomfortable.

She hummed over what she saw before standing back with a huff of frustration. "I can't see shit in this light."

"I can get a fire going," Mason suggested, but Clayton shook his head.

"Not with Fogg still out there."

"Ah... yes," the Reverend agreed stiffly, and Clayton noticed how the others had stiffened. "Be that as it may, we still should not travel on this terrain in the dark."

"I believe the Reverend is correct," Miriam agreed. "We should make camp for the night. I don't know how much longer we would have been able to continue as we were anyway."

The look Mason sent her told Clayton everything he needed to know about why they were really stopping. Clayton wouldn't complain either way; now that he'd stood still for so long he was starting to feel himself slip away towards sleep.

"I'll fetch the bed rolls then," Arabella said, sending him a smile before turning away.

"I'll prepare some dinner," Miriam said with a nod and followed after her, giving back the colt as they crossed paths.

"And I'll..." the Reverend began, only to fade away when Miriam started to loosen the saddle straps. "I'll... help." He sent Clayton a nervous smile. "You can..."

"Sit?" Clayton suggested with a raised eyebrow.

"Um... yes," Mason replied.

Clayton nodded and Folded his legs under him, shoving his wet clothes out of the way before removing his shoes, tipping them to pour the dribbles of river-water that had been squeezed from his socks as he'd walked. He also wrung his socks out while he was at it, rubbing at his saturated toes with the blanket as he listened to Arabella unroll the beds nearby.

"You really did swim through a river, didn't you."

Clayton looked up to find the Reverend stood over him again. "I did."

Mason winced in sympathy, crouching down in front of him, but then he held out a familiar object towards him. "Thought you might want this."

The sharpshooter blinked at his hat in surprise, but took it slowly from him. It looked no different than it ever had and he flipped it over in his hands, looking down at it before setting it on his head.

"There," Mason said, his smile audible in his voice, "now you look like Clayton Sharpe again."

"Am I?" Clayton asked quietly, looking out from under the brim of his hat, already settling back into his familiar half-relaxed position.

The Reverend frowned back. "Are you what?"

"Clayton Sharpe."

"Of... course you are," Mason replied. "No matter your past, it is your actions and your intentions today that make you who you are, and to us, you are Clayton Sharpe."

Clayton considered this and nodded slowly. "Alright then."

Mason smiled at him. "Alright then."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I pretty much just write when I have free time at work, and I have some days off soon... You've been getting a chapter every 2 days anyway! You can tough it out!


	6. Grey

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Those deals have consequences. Every deal of the cards is a risk."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Back again...

A great fog, thick as soup, surrounded Clayton as he walked, unable to see the ground beneath his feet. He walked slow, keeping his eyes peeled as he tried to see something - anything - that would tell him where he was. He walked and walked for what felt like an age before the fog started to lift... and he found himself stood in the middle of a graveyard. Deadwood's graveyard.

The trees stood sentinel about the edges of the clearing, the grave markers either crumbling or rotting away, and as the fog that still clung to the ground swirled about in hidden, ethereal currents. Clayton watched it, captivated, trying to find a pattern in it, but instead there was only nonsensical shapes. He moved further into fog, but as soon as he moved the fog parted, and a deep, empty grave opened up before him; a grave so deep he could see only the deepest of black shadows.

He wanted to leave, but his feet were rooted to the spot, and as he looked up at the marker he saw letters being scratched into the wood by an invisible hand.

A M O S K I N S L E Y

"No."

That wasn't him. He wasn't that man - that _boy_ \- anymore. _He wasn't dead_.

There was a snap of a branch behind him and he spun on the spot, eyes wide.

Deadwood at night, lit by dozens of lanterns, was a strange place. Having so much light was unnatural; it meant people could see him. Aloysius Fogg was stood across from him, hand on the butt of his pistol, ready to draw. The world was fog and Aloysius was holding a gun in his hand. The world was fog and his belt was too light.

He was defenseless.

"Wait!"

Heat and pain buried deep into his gut and he curled over, clutching at his belly. Hot blood spilled over his finger, and when he looked up, Aly's eyes were dark and uncaring. He heard cards shuffling, and a second shot fired.

His breath vanished and he stumbled backwards, tripping when the ground fell away, and he tumbled down, down, down, deep into the black of his grave.

* * *

Clayton sat up with a gasp, heart pulsing a mile a minute as his eyes darted this way and that, unseeing. His hand pressed hard against his chest, pressing to feel the heartbeat even as it thundered in his neck as his mind threatened to spool out into ragged threads.

"Mister Sharpe?"

His breath was coming in deep, short, ragged bursts, and the world felt hazy. It was as though there wasn't enough air to fill them, and he was suffocating.

"Clayton!"

He lashed out when something touched his arm, swinging a punch, only for his arm to get caught by other, and he started to struggle. Something restrained him, wrapping around his arms and chest from behind, and he struggled, kicking and bucking against it.

"Clayton, stop!"

Hands - soft, warm hands - caught his face, and he froze, frowning as he tried to understand why-

Arabella Whitlock was sat at his side, her thumbs running under his eyes as she started back at him, eyes filled with worry. "It's okay," she hushed. "It's okay."

He blinked back at her for a few moments, wondering what she was doing here in his grave, but the more he looked at her, the more he came to realise that this was a much too light to be a grave. His breathing started to calm, and as he looked down he found that the things holding him were in fact arms, Mason's arms.

It was a dream. It had all been a dream.

"Mister Sharpe?"

Turning to look to his left - the opposite side that Arabella had knelt - he saw Miriam watching him in concern, also knelt almost next to him. He slumped like a puppet cut from its strings as the knowledge that he was surrounded by friends seeped into his body.

Friends.

The Reverend's grasp loosened from about him and changed from being retraining to a comfort, and Clayton swallowed.

"Are you alright, Mister Sharpe?" Mason asked, his voice vibrating against Clayton's back.

"I've been better," he replied, smiling at the ladies, his breathing coming back to a more manageable level and his adrenaline dropping fast. His body slowly started to remind him that he was covered in scratches and bruises, and his rib had definitely not been dealt a good hand when he'd awoken.

Arabella pulled her hands from Clayton's cheeks, bringing his attention back to her, and he noticed how she was looking over his body with a more critical eye.

"Apologies for... disturbing everyone's rest," he continued, hesitating when she reached out to touch at his gut and over his heart. He wasn't going to look. He didn't want to know.

Thankfully her touch moved on to other places, to the spot where his rib was giving him trouble. "That's some serious bruising there," she said, glancing up at him.

"Broken rib," Clayton replied succinctly.

Miriam winced as Arabella looked down at his side. "... I don't know what to do with broken ribs."

"Leave it alone," Mason said, his arms falling away almost entirely and Clayton held a little more of his own weight. "He'll heal in time. Probably shouldn't have slept on his back for quite so long though."

Arabella looked between each of them and dread pooled in Clayton's chest at the sight of the idea blossoming in her eye.

"No."

"It would save you weeks of healing!" Arabella responded.

"I'm not seeing the Dealer," Clayton growled.

"Then let one of us-"

" _No!_ " Clayton snapped. "Those deals have consequences. Every deal of the cards is a risk."

"You're worth the risk," Arabella told him, and he paused. He didn't quite know how to react to such an adamant belief that he deserved more that what he had, but he shook his head.

"Mister Fogg took that risk and lost." Arabella winced and looked away, and Clayton hated himself a little more for it, but he couldn't bring himself to regret it. What had happened to Aly was a harsh truth - one that most of them did not wish to face - and it had resulted in something terrible. They needed to remember that. "I'm not turning to that... _thing_ for anything if I can help it."

"We might have to," the Reverend muttered behind him, and Clayton twisted slightly to look at him. Mason looked guilty, his eyes lowered, his jaw set, and hands fiddling with his rosary. "Travelling on horseback with a broken rib... It would cause you a good deal more harm than good."

Clayton made to reply - to say that he could take it, or at least that it really didn't matter - but then Mason looked up at him, and that same look he'd seen in Arabella's eyes stared back at him. He looked back at the woman, who was still being as stubborn as a mule, and even Miriam looked ready to put him in his place if he argued. "I don't like it."

"Like it or not, we're doing it," Arabella said.

"Then at least wait until we've had some fucking food," Clayton suggested, grunting when he pushed himself up entirely; his ribs were aching a lot more today than they had been yesterday.

"I'm sure we can scrounge something together from what we have left," Miriam agreed as Mason caught Clayton's shoulder and pulled him gently back to lean against him again. Clayton followed without a struggle, though he found his sense of pride was almost non-existent now. "I might not be the best of cooks, but I'm sure we don't need to have a feast." She reached out to pat Clayton's hand - a comforting symbol of her returning trust - and rose to her feet. turning away soon after.

"I don't see why we can't do it now," Arabella grumbled, moving away herself and heading over to one of the messy bed rolls.

Now that the mess of blankets had been brought to his attention Clayton looked down at his own, which had been shoved to the side at some point in the night, and now he was completely bare-chested. His eyes were drawn to the almost black bruising on his side, a slightly swollen patch of discoloured skin that looked the way it felt. Pride or not, he wasn't going on any horse, even if they did decide he was allowed anywhere near them. He looked up at the creatures that were grazing nearby with a wary eye, but they were showing no signs of discomfort of his close proximity. Yet.

"I have some bread and a little cheese," Miriam said, as she returned, holding out a roll to Clayton.

"Much obliged," he said, accepting it with a nod, wishing he still had his hat on so he could doff it to her.

She nodded back in return and held out another to the Reverend, who reached past him and took it with a rumbling word of thanks. Breakfast was a quick and quiet affair, though Clayton's throat reminded him of the bullet that was still tucked away in his coat pocket with every swallow. Too soon their meal was over though, and Arabella was rolling up their blankets and bed rolls while Miriam looked Clayton over again, checking at the cuts on his head and over his body.

"I believe you are very much in need of a bath, Mister Sharpe," she said as she touched around the scab on his brow.

"You would have thought a swim in a river would have washed away most of the dirt," Clayton replied, bringing a small smile to her lips.

"Now Mister Sharpe, I do believe you are developing a sense of humour."

He smirked at her. "The Reverend must be rubbing off on me."

Miriam chuckled as Mason huffed and grumbled behind him. "Now now, Mister Sharpe, we mustn't upset the man who's holding you up out of the goodness of his heart."

"Ah, Reverend Mason's heart is made of hardier stuff than what you're giving him credit for," Clayton said. "I'd probably have to hog tie him and drag him behind a horse for an hour before he stopped trying to redeem my soul."

"I'm not sure I'd go that far..." the Reverend replied thoughtfully and Miriam chuckled again.

"Boys, please," she said, but Clayton didn't feel even a fraction repentant when he'd brought some joy.

"I'm ready."

And there went that smile, smothered by a wave of worry.

"I can risk a ride," Clayton said, looking up at Arabella who stood before them now that their bedding had been neatly packed away.

"With Mister Fogg on our tail?"

The sharpshooter winced, which was answer enough for her.

"It'll be fine," Mason said as Arabella knelt down next to Miriam.

"I've never really had much in the way of luck," Clayton said, looking back at her.

"Well, then we'll just use some of mine," she replied and she held out her hand. Clayton stared at it for a few moments, then let out a huff and reached for it.

The instant they came in contact he stiffened, his nerves coming alive with sparking energy that reminded him of lightning, and his entire body tingled. He felt a pull from inside him as Arabella's eyes lost focus, and then...

* * *

"Welcome back."

Clayton opened his eyes - when had he closed them? - and found himself stood behind Arabella in a world of grey, the Dealer looking over them as he shuffled a deck of cars.

"I want to heal him," she said, voice firm and arms tight to her side.

The Dealer chuckled. "And your bet?"

Clayton tried to speak, to stop this, or at least to help in some way, but he was stuck, paralyzed, and all he could do was watch as Arabella bet a piece of her soul.

One card was dealt, two, three, four, five. Arabella stared at the cards, not having noticed him, and thought hard before pointing at one. It was swapped out, replaced with another, and her shoulders slumped, though Clayton couldn't tell why and he felt his nerves crescendo.

The Dealer nodded, and Arabella vanished. Suddenly Clayton could move again, and his body almost fell forwards from trying desperately to reach Missus Whitlock.

"Wasn't that entertaining?"

"What did you do?" Clayton growled.

"Nothing she didn't agree to."

"You leave her alone!"

"Now why would I do that?" the Dealer asked and, despite all his efforts to back away, it touched his side. A bright, hot, flare of pain shot through him, like the sensation of lightning that had pulled him here, and he screamed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm of to lead some D&D with my friends, but I hope you guys enjoyed!


	7. Rest

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Lord Father in heaven, watch over your lost sheep, for they are in need of guidance."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Slightly shorter than usual, but eh, it works.

Having the weight of a body leaning against him was not all that familiar an experience for Matthew Mason, and while the reason behind it was not one he would ever wish for, he couldn't say that he disliked the experience, even if sitting in such a way was a little uncomfortable. Mister Sharpe didn't seem to mind all too much either, even if he'd complained initially, and the warmth of his body was seeping into his chest. It made him feel useful in some small way, even if that was just to be a comfortable wall on which to rest, but now there was nothing he could do.

Matthew had been hopeful, if wary, when Arabella Whitlock had offered to see the Dealer for Clayton, her luck having been the best out of all of them, though he did feel disappointed that he wouldn't be able to atone for his inaction. He'd wanted to, of course, but he was too much of a coward to say anything. Next time he would do something. Next time.

However, when Clayton... when _Mister Sharpe_ had stiffened against him, that wariness started to bleed into a greater worry.

"Mister Sharpe?" he asked, touching his arm. "Are you alright?"

No answer.

"Ms Miriam?" he said instead, looking over at the woman.

Miriam was watching both of the still members of their group with an air of unease, her fingers twitching in the skirt of her dress, and when Arabella took a deep breath, the both of them almost jumped. For a moment Arabella collected herself, blinking a few times before smiling widely. "I-"

Somehow Mister Sharpe grew even more still in his arms, and whatever Missus Whitlock was about to say was cut off by a blood curdling scream.

Clayton's voice was loud and awful, broken and dry, and filled with an agonising pain. His head pushed back against Matthew's shoulder as he stretched and writhed, and the Reverend tried desperately to keep him still as the man tried to twist and kick out of his grasp. A resounding crack, one that somehow echoed around them, and one more scream, and Clayton fell back against Matthew, panting and huffing, tugging at the fabric of Matthew's trousers.

"Oh God," Miriam muttered, and Arabella looked stunned, almost sick, but all Matthew could do was hold him and stare as the dark bruise slowly cleared from Clayton's side.

"That wasn't supposed to happen," Arabella muttered. "That... That didn't happen before. Reverend?" She turned her eyes to him, imploring him to help her make sense of the situation.

He wished he could have helped her, he wished to God in heaven that he had some answers, but his mind was blank of any answers. "I did not experience such things."

"Clayton?" Miriam said, wetting a handkerchief she pulled from her sleeve with a water skin and coming to kneel beside him, dabbing the damp cloth at his brow. "Clayton, can you hear me?"

Mister Sharpe shifted against Matthew's chest and nodded slightly. "Yes ma'am." He sounded so weak, so exhausted, but he still managed to push himself up a little. "Did i' work?"

And he was slurring too. The Reverend looked over his shoulder, half expecting Mister Fogg to be walking into view with all the luck their sharpshooter had been having, but all that met him was the great expanse of land before the hills and woods surrounding Deadwood.

"Rest, Mister Sharpe," Miriam said, reaching out to push him back down, but even delirious Clayton was stubborn.

"'m fine," he said, weakly batting her hand away.

"You are clearly not fine," she responded and started pushing him back down again. He landed back against Matthew's chest a moment later and the Reverend could just about see his look of annoyance. "Get your strength back. There's no point in pushing yourself when we can take care of you."

Mister Sharpe grunted in agreement, though Matthew was certain he wasn't entirely sure what he was agreeing to, and this time he didn't fight the gentle nudge to lie back against the Reverend's chest. Instead he looked over at Arabella, and though the angle was odd to Matthew, he could see the worry in his gaze. "You 'right?"

Arabella blinked back at him, and Matthew sat up straighter. Yes, they'd been so caught up with what had happened with Clayton that they'd completely forgotten to ask if she'd succeeded with her gamble. Usually the answer was cut and dry - either they won or they lost - but this time, with the way Mister Sharpe had reacted, how were they supposed to know?

Missus Whitlock nodded numbly and reached out to take Clayton's hand again. "I got three nines," she muttered quietly. She seemed to have drawn in on herself, making her appear small and lost. Had Matthew not been keeping Clayton upright, he would have gathered her up in his arms. "It worked."

"But y' di'n't lose,"Clayton slurred, turning his hand in hers and squeezed her fingers. "The details don' matter."

"You were screaming," Matthew said, and Clayton looked up at him with a frown.

"I was?" Mister Sharpe looked over towards the horses. "I though' I... Bastard."

"... Mister Sharpe?" Miriam asked after a silence that was much too long.

Clayton jerked to attention in Matthew's arms. "Hm?"

Miriam smiled warmly down at him and brushed the wet handkerchief over his brow again. "Rest."

"Mm," the sharpshooter replied, and he relaxed almost entirely into Matthew's chest, unable to hold onto consciousness any longer. The Reverend wrapped his arms around him without a thought, wanting to protect this man from any other pain, and sighed in relief. Hopefully now he would know some peace.

After a few moments his breathing evened out and his head dropped to the side.

Arabella, who was still holding and stroking at Clayton's hand, sniffed, and Matthew was startled to see that she had started to cry. "He's already been through so much."

"That he has," Miriam agreed and she gathered one of the blankets that Missus Whitlock had folded away to cover Mister Sharpe's slumbering form. "We'll leave him be for a time, but we must be moving on soon."

Matthew nodded in agreement. "We don't know what could be out here." After all that had occurred in the past few days it was more than just coyote and buzzards that worried him out here. There were still several snakes that were unaccounted for after all, and whatever other human dangers that wanted to come knocking at their door. "I'll uh.. give him my coat later."

"That's mighty kind of you, Reverend dear,"Miriam said as she patted his arm, which was hidden under the blanket now. "I'm sure Clayton would greatly appreciate your generosity."

He nodded to himself and looked over at Arabella again. "Ms Arabella?"

"Yes?" She looked back at him, her eyes a little too wide, but then she closed her eyes tight and sighed. "I'm sorry. It's just... I don't think I've ever heard anyone make a noise like that before."

Matthew winced. He certainly had, and one of the reasons he'd fled the army was so that he never would have to hear such a sound again. "It's hard to hear, for anyone."

Both of the women sent him a sympathetic look, but he didn't want to think about it. That way led memories of smoke and screams and blood and fear. He couldn't be afraid now, not when he had Mister Sharpe to take care of.

"Lord Father in heaven, watch over your lost sheep, for they are in need of guidance."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Amen, Reverend. Amen.


	8. A Decision

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Whatever we might face, we will face it together.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So between the last chapter and this one I started watching Critical Role Campaign 1, since I've never actually watched it before, and... I got sucked in. I completely forgot about this story for a little while and started working on my own stuff again and daydreaming about Vox Machina, not Undeadwood. To say this has fallen to the wayside is an understatement, but I've never felt more inspired. It's a very bizarre situation.
> 
> Either way, I managed to write a little something in the meantime. I hope you guys like it!

Clayton was pulled out of his dreamless sleep by gentle hands and soft words, easing him out of the darkness until he blinked with sleep-filled eyes up at a cloudy sky. The clouds were fluffy and white, and the sun was warm on his face, and he was surprisingly comfortable considering he was outside. He shifted sleepily on the spot and he felt a rumble beneath him. He tensed for a moment before he realised it was the Reverend, whom he was lying against, laughing.

"I don't think I have ever seen you quite so comfortable, Mister Sharpe," Miriam said from where she stood some handful of feet away, tying something to one of the horses.

Clayton glared at her and pushed himself up into a sitting position. "We haven't known each other for so long, Missus Landisman," he replied, glancing back at Mason as his arms pulled away from around him and he shuffled back from behind him.

The Reverend looked a little sheepish under his eye, but he quickly rose to his feet and dusted himself off with a cough. "It's about time we headed off, isn't it?"

"We should be able to delay another minute more," Arabella replied, appearing at Clayton's side (he really had no idea where she'd come from) and held out his shirt to him. "I tried cleaning it a bit."

The sharpshooter reached out for it and held it out in front of him. It might have been white once upon a time - or as white as he could afford - but now it was a faded cream with large brown stains stiffening sections of it. There were also freshly sewn strips in three places, the thread a much more obvious scar when in place over the stains. Overall, it looked much better than he'd expected it to be. "My thanks."

"No need to thank me," she replied, giving him a fleeting smile, but it faded quickly, and Clayton was able to take note of a deep exhaustion in her eyes before she turned away.

He sighed and pulled his shirt on. He rubbed at his side once the old fabric was settled over his shoulders again and frowned, thinking of that Bastard. He didn't know what kind of game the Dealer was playing, but whatever it was, it seemed he was in the thick of it. Rising to his feet with a grunt, he dusted off is pants and started to fold up the blanket he'd been covered with.

"Oh, uh, I thought you might like these," the Reverend said as he finished folding, and Clayton turned to find the man holding out his gun belt to him.

"... Why do you have these?" he asked, even as he took them from his large hands. Their weight felt like a relief, and when he strapped it about his waist he relaxed fractionally, touching the polished handles.

"I... didn't think you should be separated from them," Mason replied, meeting his surprised look with a steady gaze. "Fogg... he'd left them behind in the church when he, uh, took you."

Clayton caught the twitch of the Reverend's fingers as he tried to pull his sleeves down and he gritted his teeth. No matter if it was whatever that the Dealer had done to Fogg, if he'd harmed the preacher - harmed any of them - he wasn't sure he'd be able to forgive him. For now though he wasn't going to think too hard on it, and he nodded. "It seems I owe you for more than I'd first perceived. All of you."

Arabella gave him another brief smile as she came to take the blanket and offer his hat. "Let's just go home."

Clayton nodded, setting the hat on his head. He wasn't going to be able to call any place home for a long while, but the folks in front of him were certainly getting close. "Sounds like a fine idea," he said, "though I am finding myself wondering just how many folks down at Deadwood know of my... duel."

The Reverend shifted uncomfortably and Arabella looked away, but Miriam looked him head on.

"We know that the boys at the Gem Saloon know," she said, "as do the girls from the Bella Union. Other than that..." She shrugged. "It's hard to tell how fast the rumours will spread, especially since none of us are currently situated within the town's boarders."

"So for all we know they'll think me another Wild Bill come back to cause carnage in the streets," Clayton said with a sigh, rubbing his hand over his face.

"That does appear to be the case," Miriam agreed solemnly.

"What a strange place this world has become," Clayton muttered and readjusted his hat. "I suppose we'll just have to head back and... find out."

The Reverend nodded, but Miriam looked nervous, and Arabella looked away, her nerves and darker thoughts clear.

Clayton frowned at each of them. "What?"

"Are we sure that going back to Deadwood is a good idea?" Miriam asked. "It's a great risk."

The sharpshooter snorted. "Though we might not have roots in that town, the Reverend here does," he said, nodding towards the taller man, "and Missus Whitlock has a husband who will no doubt question her whereabouts should she be gone for too long."

Arabella winced at the reminder, but nodded. "He's probably already worried."

"Exactly," Clayton said. "So it's Deadwood or nothing."

Miriam huffed but nodded slowly. "I suppose there is no escaping this then."

"Maybe not," the Reverend said, "but whatever we might face, we will face it together."

Clayton nodded, smiling a little at the thought; it seemed that having people who would face the world with you was a much more agreeable prospect than he could have hoped.


End file.
